


underneath the moon

by megancrtr



Series: her memory palace [2]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:41:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7479225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megancrtr/pseuds/megancrtr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're lying on the grass, Izzy's head on your bare stomach, and you breathe deeply, enjoying the way she slowly sinks up and down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	underneath the moon

You're lying on the grass, Izzy's head on your bare stomach, and you breathe deeply, enjoying the way she slowly sinks up and down. 

What goes on inside your head? you ask her, looking up at the Moon as it pushes away stars. It's a full Moon, and your brothers and sisters are out dancing naked beneath its glow, reawakening powers, rejuvenating spirits. You will too, later. The Queen asked it of you.

There’s a palace there, she tells you, and you feel the warmth of her hand pressing against your chest. You take her hand without looking at it and press kisses to her fingertips. She goes on, It’s made of stones carved with runes. 

Which runes, you ask and put aside the thought of sucking in one of her fingers, curling your tongue around its pad and hollowing out your cheeks. You want to keep her in this mood for a little while longer, this lazy peacefulness. No whip in her hand, no knife up her boot. No boots. No shoes are allowed in the realm. You noticed that her toenails matched the deep green on her fingers. You wonder if she painted them this color just for you. Or if she likes the color too. She must like it, you decide. Because she never worries what others think, never submits to someone else’s desires or wills if they are not her own. 

She is never anyone but herself, and she would never compromise, not even for you. 

You accept this with a heart as full as the Moon. It is one of the reasons you love her. 

They’re runes for protection and love, she tells you. Family. Friends. She tugs her hand away and reaches for the stars. They live in there, she says. In my memory palace. You do too. 

Which room is mine? you ask. 

She laughs and twists her head to look at you instead of the stars. You discover that looking into her eyes is like looking into the sky, a precarious balance of light and dark, a curling depth whose end you cannot fathom. 

You have no room, she tells you. You have an entire garden instead. 

An entire garden? 

With willows and oaks, and sweet peas and honeysuckle. Climbers, she tells you. 

Strength, you reply. 

She grins at you and drifts her head forward. You curl up and meet her lips, smiles playing on both your faces. It's brief. But you smell the orange mint lingering on her skin from the tea you shared before the Moon rose. She drops her head back onto your stomach, looking at you again. Her hair tickles at your skin. You love her hair. You tell her so, your hand moving to draw a lock towards you, twisting it around your fingers. She stares at your eyes, and then your lips. She tells you she likes your hair too. Loves its colors and the way they cycle with the seasons and the Moon. 

You want to hear more about the palace. 

She tells you that she tends the garden to keep the memories of you. That every new leaf, every new bud, is a different memory. 

Where will this memory grow? 

She reaches up a hand, presses her palm against your cheek. Her fingers extend slowly over your skin, brush against your hair. 

On the honeysuckle, she tells you. The sweat peas carry every goodbye we've ever said. 

You hum in praise for her selected flower and in mourning for every goodbye she must remember that you have somehow forgotten. You know there are some. You know, without asking, that this garden never wilts, never dies. Her memories remain as sharp today as the day she created them. She confessed once—as you lingered in an embrace, sheets tangled around your thighs—that no present will ever compare to some memories for her. You hope that the every moment she spends with you from now until the end is better than any previous memory she tends in her palace’s garden. 

You want her (crave her) out here, where you can experience reality together. You cannot reach her, cannot relive moments with her when they happen within her mind. She might be able to relive your touch against her body and be content with a memory as vivid as reality, but your mind does not work that way. You need to touch her, feel her hair, her skin to remember why you gravitate towards her. You need to listen to her talk, to her moan, experience it over and over again to remember pleasure and renew your memories. You need her here beside you as reassurance that she is no figment of imagination, slowly deforming with time. You need to keep finding, creating moments with her because your memory is not good enough to do her justice, to keep you satisfied. If she loses herself in her mind, if she finds that you were better before—in her memory—than she will leave you. 

Your heart breaks at the thought, even though now, under the full Moon, hearts should not be breaking. 

You can’t put this feeling into only a handful of words, so you do not tell her. Instead, you ask her where she spends the most time in her garden, under which tree, next to which flower. She doesn't tell you, just runs her hand down your neck, over your chest. 

There's some yarrow in the garden too, she says instead with that sly smile that first enticed you into her bed. Her mind, her wit, her soul is what kept you there. 

You grin in response to her, knowing there must be more than just some yarrow in her garden. 

She moves off your body and you sit up, leaning forward, hands reaching for her sides, smoothing up to her breasts. Let’s help that yarrow grow, you tell her, and she laughs something full, which makes it hard to kiss her lips. You don’t mind though. You like her like this, happy and blissful. 

You settle for pressing your teeth, lips, tongue into her neck until her laughter changes to moans. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! -- [tumblr](https://megancrtr.tumblr.com/)


End file.
